


That which we have not deeply thought about

by Million_Moments



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Million_Moments/pseuds/Million_Moments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d already decided he wasn't going to leave the island, unfortunately he can’t remember that. After an accident, Richard is sent to the UK to recover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Traumatic Event

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired in part by the book “The Man who Forgot his Wife” by John O’Farrell. I’m not very happy with the opening chapter, this is one of those stories where I have written the end chapters but didn’t have a way to get there…so this is what I came up with.

The whole blasted saga began with one of Richard’s bad moods. His colleagues assumed it was brought on by the lack of progress on the case they were currently working, but as annoying as it was if your only witness is unconscious in hospital even he could accept that there may be delays in progress. No, the mood was brought on by a very official letter from the Metropolitan Police and the subsequent chat with the Commissioner that morning. After spending 15 minutes on hold trying to talk to somebody back in London who knew what they were on about he’d slammed down the phone in frustration, stood up and kicked his desk.

This had two effects. Firstly, Richard really hurt his foot. Secondly, he knocked his in-tray and the paperwork within it all over the floor. Camille rolled her eyes across the room and him and got up to help him tidy the mess.

“Did that make you feel better?” She asked sarcastically. He didn’t respond to her, choosing to go down the ‘if you can’t say anything nice’ route.

Richard had forgotten something key, which was about to prove his downfall. When Camille had wondered over to his desk that morning he’d stuffed the letter causing his bad mood under a bunch of other papers to stop her seeing it and over-reacting. He looked up from trying to secure the sections of his in-tray back together to find her with the wretched letter clutched in her hand, eyes rapidly scanning it and taking the information in, and knew the game was up.

 

* * *

 

With no leads left to pursue on the current assault case, and not much else pressing for their attention, Dwayne and Fidel had gone down to the market to show their faces and let the good people of Saint Marie know their police service cared. Fidel did this by assisting older citizens, writing a few people up for traffic violations and giving directions to lost tourists. Dwayne did this through a liberal application of flirting. The market was now shutting down for the day, so the two of them decided to pop back into the station before home time.

They didn’t need to get that close to the station to hear the fight.

Dwayne rolled his eyes at Fidel, “What do you think this one is about really?” he asked jovially, but his expression changed once he was able to hear the words they were exchanging.

“You can’t accuse me of hiding things from you I only got the blasted thing this morning! Am I not allowed any time to think about things? Is it not actually my life, or do you have to be involved with all my decisions now?” Richard snapped a reply to a comment from Camille they’d missed.

“You’re trying to make this out like it isn’t a big deal, and _it is_ ,they are sending you back to London!” Camille was trying to keep the pain out of her voice and failing. Dwayne and Fidel shared a look, and with it decided it was best to go in just to lessen the chance of assault or murder happening when their boss invariably said the wrong thing. That was, if he even realised the real reasons she was upset. 

However as they stepped inside the door the Inspector actually managed to surprise them by hesitantly informing Camille, “I don’t actually _have_ to go. I mean, the Met phrases it as an order but if I refuse the promotion then, technically, I suppose I could remain in my post here.”

“Why would you refuse the promotion?” She asked him quietly.

At this point Richard returned to his more inarticulate self when faced with questions that might have anything to do with feelings. After about 15 seconds of really rather awkward silence Camille decided she had her answer.

“This is ridiculous, of course you have to take the promotion! It’ll ruin your career if you don’t!” She shouted at him.

The Inspector looked perplexed, and Fidel felt for him. He’d had many similar fights with Juliet when they first met and neither was sure that the other wanted the same thing.

“Hang on, first you’re mad at me because I might be leaving and now you’re mad because I say I might stay? Is there any way for me to win here?”

Behind Camille, Fidel and Dwayne attempted to indicate this might not have been the best course of action.

“I’M NOT MAD ABOUT THAT!” She was pointing at him, pointing was never good.

“WELL YOU COULD HAVE BLOODY FOOLED ME!” He threw his hands up in the air in defeat.

“I’m mad because you didn’t discuss it with me…us!”

“We’ve been over this, I only got it this morning,” Richard sighed as Camille grabbed her bag and the jeep’s keys off her desk. “Where are you going?”

“Home!” She replied abruptly and turned to leave. Richard followed her out.

“You can’t drive when you’re this angry, you’ll have an accident. I’ll drive you home,” He used his Inspector voice, which did not go down well with Camille.

“What?” she bit back at him, holding the keys out of his reach.

“Driving whilst frustrated or angry reduces a driver’s visual hazard perception by up to 30%, leading to an increased risk of accidents, Smyth and Hadrian 2013.”

This pronouncement caused Camille to pause long enough that Richard was able to grab the keys out of her hands. Violence may well have followed but, luckily for Richard, Camille recognised he was doing this because he actually cared. She was still too angry and upset to be touched by the gesture, but she was able to acknowledge it. She huffed at him and went off to climb into the passenger seat of the jeep.

Richard took a moment to apply his forehead to the doorframe and let out a long breath.

“Don’t worry Chief, my Dad always used to say to me women are meant to be loved not understood,” Dwayne attempted to comfort him. However this comment gained the sort of look from his Inspector that he normally tried to avoid, his _interesting_ relationship with Camille was not something that should be alluded to, _ever_.

Fidel wasn’t able to contain himself, “Are you leaving, Sir?”

Richard let out another breath, but before he could answer the horn on the jeep sounded rather violently, so his reply was quickly formed, “It’s not a done thing. I better go before she hot wires the jeep.”

 

* * *

 

 

For the first two minutes, Camille gave him the silent treatment. Richard had never expected it to last for long, but at least she had stopped shouting when she spoke next.

“You don’t have to pretend you might stay out of some misplaced sense of loyalty you know.”

Richard tried to keep the sigh to a minimum this time, “That wouldn’t be the reason why.”

“You’ve wanted to go home five minutes after you got here, everyone knows that,” she said sulking.

“Technically that isn’t true,” Camille gave him a dubious look. “I never wanted to come in the first place.”

That earned him an eye roll, and another two minutes of blissful silence.

“You leaving is inevitable, stupid to pretend otherwise.”

Richard felt a flare of frustration that he tried to keep under control. It wouldn’t do any good to end up crashing the jeep because he was angry. Instead he calmly asked, “Why would you say that? You said I wasn’t coming back last time and I did. Is there a way to actually prove I don’t hate it here as much as you seem to think?”

“This is different. You have every reason to go, make a better life for yourself, and just forget us” her reply was deliberately provoking and before he really knew what he was doing he indicated and pulled over to the side of the road.

“What are you doing?” she finally actually looked at him, mildly surprised by his action.

“I’m stopping the car in order to prevent my frustration with you causing me to crash the damn thing.”

“Oh, you’re frustration with me? You’re brutally honest 24 hours a day and now you’re _frustrated_ at me because I state what it obvious?” With Camille, attack had always been the best form of defence. When she was hurting she struck out, hoping other people’s pain would cover her own. Richard did not expect the conversation to go well.

“Tell me, what have I done to you exactly that gives you zero faith in me?” he asked her.

“Oh well let me see. Well for number one you complain constantly about the lack of resources, the culture, people speaking French, the weather and then go on about how glorious London is in comparison,” she rattled off.

“I’m English, I like complaining, I do have a reputation to maintain you know,” He was trying to draw a smile from her, it normally worked much to his surprise, but today she was immovable.

“All the more reason for you to get back to your fellow countrymen,” She refused to meet his eye.

Richard Poole was well known for not doing emotions. If he had to be anything but professional, he tended to mess up. He was about logic and irrefutable arguments, and had come to rely strongly on Camille for her ability to read others emotions. As a consequence though, he had worked hard in order to learn in turn to read the looks she threw at him – even though most of them were easy as she largely used them to berate him. He knew from the tone of her voice when he should back the hell off or when she was only teasing him. Perhaps his experience had made him a little over-confident because he immediately regretted what he said next.

“You know, not everyman is your bloody father!”

Her body stiffened in the seat next to him, another sure sign that meant he had crossed the line. Her voice was probably the deadliest he’d ever heard it when she said, “What?”

Backpedalling wasn’t going to help, so he decided he might as well try to explain what he meant, “Look, you know, you always pretend like your Dad leaving didn’t affect you but it did. If I tell you I don’t want to leave you won’t believe me and it’s…” he paused and gritted his teeth to avoid swearing. “… _really_ annoying.”

“How dare you? You think you know me? You think you’re some sort of psychologist now? You’re absolutely useless with people - trying to bring my Father into this is just proof of that,” She began to struggle out of her seatbelt, intending to storm off somewhere.

Richard snapped back at her, “I think I know you a bit better than you think I do. Come on, don’t be stupid, you’re overreacting.”

“Oh no I’m overreacting! I suppose that was caused by my mother coddling me!” She’d gotten out of her seatbelt and threw herself out of the car, walking off in the direction of her house.

“CAMILLE!” he shouted back at her, but for now the situation seemed unsalvageable. She was only a ten minute walk from home. With yet another sigh, he started the car and turned it around, heading home.

 

He was pretty sure his visual hazard perception had not been reduced, but he knew he was driving a bit too fast given the conditions. Potholes in Saint Marie were inevitable, and often impossible to avoid. One was made impossible simply by another driver careering around a corner so fast Richard was actually forced to drive over it to avoid a collision. The only problem with potholes is if you hit enough of them they start to weaken your tires, and that can lead to a tyre burst, which is what Richard quickly surmised had happened as the car lurched out of the pothole and began listing seriously to the left. He managed to resist the urge to break, some driver training apparently staying with him, but with the sharp bend right there he had no choice but to aim the vehicle off the road where it came to a very sharp stop thanks to a palm.

 

 

* * *

 

When Dwayne got the call from Fire and Rescue about the Inspector, he immediately called Camille. As he watched her pacing A & E, he wondered if it was possible to charm one of the nurses into giving her a sedative. She wouldn’t stop going on about how it was her fault. Despite explaining to her that the tyre burst was just from the jeep being used too much and not being repaired often enough, the same conclusion fire and rescue had come too, she still went on about it like she had slashed the tyre herself.

Sitting in another corner of the waiting room, Fidel had Rosie on his lap, reading her a story and trying to keep her entertained. Juliet had food poisoning, and though Dwayne assured him that he and Camille had it covered he’d still turned up 20 minutes later with his little girl in tow and a bag full of things to hopefully keep her occupied and quiet. At that moment Rosie pushed herself off her father’s lap, toddled over to Camille and attached herself to the detective’s leg. Camille seemed surprised to see her.

“Hey Rosie,” She said, bending down to pick up the child and finally sitting down next to Dwayne. Fidel came over and sat on her other side.

“He’ll be okay,” Fidel told her in his best reassuring tone.

Camille smiled at him, “If he’s not I’ll kill him.”

 

* * *

The attending Doctor stuck his head in the door but the nurse shook her head to indicate the patient wasn’t awake yet. Dr. Cadet was familiar with the Inspector and the officers outside who were awaiting news. He had intended to call tomorrow to inform him another patient was ready for interview, but by the looks of the CT scan somebody else would have to do that. He frowned, from what he knew of the Inspector keeping him away from work may prove a challenge. Though the CT scan had thankfully been clear of bleeding, early indications were that he would probably have a very severe concussion and be unwell for some time – though Cadet knew he’d have to wait until the Inspector was conscious before he could make a proper assessment.

One of the more senior nursing staff approached him, “Doctor, are you able to update the officers on the patient’s condition yet? I think one of them is rather distressed…”

Cadet nodded briskly, “I’ll let them know he appears to be out of any danger for now.”

When he stepped into the waiting room three police officers accompanied by a very sleepy toddler all jumped to their feet.

He smiled in greeting, “He’s not awake yet, but I don’t think that is anything to worry about. CT scan was clear, but I predict one hell of a headache.”

Dwayne and Fidel smiled at each other, clearly relieved, whilst the toddle just blinked confusedly but seemed to accept the fact that since her father was happy, she should be too. DS Bordey, he knew, was more the seeing is believing type, but she wasn’t a relation so he couldn’t really allow it and the look on her face said she knew it without him saying so.

“Do you know when he might be awake?” She asked him tentatively.

“I’m afraid that is entirely up to him,” however, even as he was finishing the sentence, the nurse he had assigned to keep checking in on a patient opened the door and beckoned him over. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Camille absolutely, one hundred percent knew she shouldn’t, but before the door slammed shut behind the Doctor she slipped through it and hurried down the hall after him. She looked at the Doctor pleadingly.

“2 minutes and I’m coming in with you,” Dr. Cadet conceded, without ever really putting up a fight.

The patient was sitting up, giving the nurse a perplexed look as she took his blood pressure. His silence caused a momentary flare of concern in the Doctor, in his experience Richard Poole enjoyed complaining far too much not to be winging at the nurse about the cuff being too tight. However maybe his head just hurt.

Richard looked between Camille and himself expectantly, but it would seem the police detective had suddenly gone shy.

“How are you feeling?” Cadet asked.

Inspector Poole shrugged, “My head really hurts.”

Before he could begin his examination, Camille suddenly burst out, “I promise not to fight with you anymore! Actually I can’t promise that we fight all the time, but next time, I’ll never leave until we’ve sorted it out and I’m really sorry, this is all my fault.”

Cadet wasn’t sure the Inspector caught all of that, he wasn’t sure he’d followed it all and he hadn’t been in a car crash today. Inspector Poole gave him a sidelong glance.

“Did you hit me on the head?” he asked Camille.

She took a step back, “Of course not.”

“Then why are you blaming yourself?”

Camille grinned, gave the Inspector the fastest peck on the cheek the good doctor ever thought he’d seen and called out that she’d be back later as she shimmied happily out the door. Cadet picked up the chart and saw that blood pressure was high, but within normal range given the stress. He needed to do a neurological exam which would hopefully belay some of his niggling worries.

Inspector Poole was still staring at the door, then seemed to mentally shake himself before turning to Dr Cadet and saying, “Wow, she is _really_ hot.”

At that moment, he knew something was very wrong after all.

 


	2. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter I’m not happy with, because I’ve planned later parts so well but need to get the character’s in the right places first! At least I don’t have to worry about Richard being OOC…

He hadn’t managed to mask the shocked look on his face, and his patient seemed to pick up on the fact that there was a problem. Dr Cadet schooled his features and decided it was best not to put off the neurological exam any further.

“Okay, Sir, how are you feeling generally?” Cadet began.

Another shrug, “Like I said my head hurts.”

“Are you alright if I ask you a few questions?” He received a small nod and carried on. “Okay can you just confirm your name and date of birth for me?”

He looked down at the medical records before him, as his patient rattled off “Richard Poole, 12th October 1971.” However when Cadet looked up, he realised that Inspector Poole had been reading it off his medical bracelet.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital?” he replied, almost uncertainly.

“Do you know where that hospital is?”

Richard shook his head, and winced in pain, “I think I might be able to save you some time Doctor, I’m pretty sure there is something wrong. I don’t know where the hospital is, I don’t know who that woman was and I can’t remember much of anything before I woke up, except being in a car with a fireman trying to get me to talk to him.”

“Okay Richard, well I don’t want you to be too concerned. You did suffer a head trauma and this could all be temporary. I’m going to need to finish the examination and then I may send you for a few more tests? Okay?”

“I’m not really worried,” he replied. “More disappointed.”

Richard read the confusion off his Doctor’s face, “Well you knew something was wrong after I commented on that woman. So I guess she’d not my girlfriend.”

Dr Cadet, having dealt with this man so often, was starting to find this a little surreal, “Well it would seem your skills of deduction are still intact.”

“You make me sound like Sherlock Holmes,” Richard replied.

“Right can you follow my finger please?” Dr Cadet decided to change the subject.

 

 

There rest of the neurological exam showed now other issues apart from the memory loss, which was a tad confusing. The MRI scan also showed no damage to any of the memory centres. He’d had a chat with a neurologist on Guadeloupe (Saint Marie being too small to have one), who’d also agreed the complete lack of any other neurological issues was not normal and felt that leaving it a day and seeing if memory began to return might be best. He also reminded Dr Cadet of what the most likely answer was, but he really didn’t want to face that as an option and was hoping he was wrong.

The day after, he’d decided not to allow any visitors. He could tell he worried the officers who came to visit, but Cadet had never been in a situation like this before. I mean, how would Richard know if he wanted visitors or not? With the patient’s permission, he’d spoken to his parents. Mrs Poole was apparently concerned enough to have arranged to fly in the next day after a five minute conversation with her son. When the day ended and Richard Poole maintained a complete blank about anything before the accident, and was still remarkably calm about the whole issue, Cadet knew he was going to have to talk to his superiors.

 

* * *

 

A phone conference with the Police Commissioner, somebody quite high up in Metropolitan Police human resources as well as several Doctors resulted in the formation of a plan. There was no denying the results, Richard Poole’s only current medical problem was his lack of memory and some bruises. There really wasn’t any reason to keep him in hospital, and there was no medical experts likely to be able to deal with the likely diagnosis on Saint Marie.

Dr Cadet went to explain the decision to Richard, who for the first time ever actually showed some concern over his condition.

“Are you telling me I’ve gone a bit mental?” he asked frankly.

“No, Inspector Poole…” Richard interrupted him before he could continue.

“Don’t call me that, it’s weird,” he sounded genuinely annoyed at the use of his title. “Stick with Richard, I give you permission or whatever it is you need.”

“No, Richard, you haven’t gone crazy. It’s just that as far as we can surmise there is no physical injury causing your memory loss,” the doctor explained patiently. “Post-traumatic amnesia brought on by cranial injury is not unusual, but individuals do not normally lose more than a week. Your situation is more akin to a fugue state, which are normally brought on by a stressful event.”

“So I just chose to forget everything? Because I crashed a car? That sucks.”

“You didn’t choose to Inspe…Richard.  And we can’t be 100% sure that is what is happening. However I am positive that returning to the UK for treatment is the best option. Your mother will be here soon I’m sure she’ll be glad to have you home.”

Richard looked at him, “Do you think I’ll recognise her?”

“I don’t know.”

He seemed to be thinking hard about the whole situation, and the doctor felt he should probably leave him to it, “If you have any more questions, just ask one of the nurses to page me and I’ll come down when I can.”

As he turned to leave, Richard called him back, “That woman, who was here just after I woke up, she was one of the police officers I work with?”

“Yes, Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. She’s called a few times to check on you, see if you were up for visitors.”

“Are you going to tell her I’ve gone mental?”

Dr Cadet resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the terminology, “The police commissioner is aware of you situation. It is likely he would brief your team, but I could talk to them if you like. Or would you like too?”

“Why did she think it was her fault?” Richard answered the question with a question.

“Oh, I believe you had a bit of an argument that evening. She thought you’d crashed the car because of an argument, but it was a tyre blowout. In fact the fire and rescue team said you had excellent reactions and things could have been much worse.”

“I think maybe I should see her, them, before I go, don’t you?”

“There is no reason you shouldn’t. How about I have them come for visiting hours this evening, you could spend the afternoon with your mother and then maybe get out into the garden. I’m happy to stick around a few hours after shift in case they have any questions. I also think it would be better if I gave them a warning first, are you okay with that?”

His patient nodded, still looking thoughtful, and this time Cadet made it out of the door.

 

* * *

 

Richard spent a very frustrating afternoon with his Mother, who was clearly very upset that her cuddle-muffin had been injured. He prayed to God that she never used that term of endearment again. At least the sense of frustration he had felt vaguely familiar, as if his mother often wound him up or embarrassed him with her behaviour. However he was pretty certain sure this would have been the first time she’d stuck pictures under his nose and repeatedly asked him if he remembered such and such or so and so. He remained patient, at least he knew his mother loved him if she flew all this way. She’d told him his Dad, some high-level civil servant, couldn’t come due to a crisis to do with horsemeat in beef burgers.

As six o’clock approached, the time his team were supposed to visit, he started to feel a little agitated. He wasn’t quite willing to face up to the reasons why. His mother answered a phone call, giving Richard a break from her attempts to prompt him to remember some wedding he’d been page boy at when he was six. She seemed pleased with whatever the person on the end of the phone was saying, and had a big relieved smile when she sat back down next to him.

“I’ve managed to get us tickets on tomorrow evening’s flight, darling,” She told him, pleased with herself. Richard wasn’t sure he much liked being called ‘darling’ either, but at least it was better than cuddle-muffin. His mum seemed to mistake his grimace for a lack of enthusiasm for him imminent homecoming. “Are you not happy to come home, Darling?”

“I’m sorry Mum, of course I want to come home,” Outright lie, as he didn’t think it really mattered where he was, he was still mental.

They were sitting in a small, formally planted garden at the end of the hospital’s car park. Richard spotted Dr Cadet walking with four individuals – one he knew to be Camille, the other the Commissioner Patterson who had dropped his mother off earlier and two men he presumed were Dwayne and Fidel from the briefing Dr Cadet had given him earlier. Unfortunately he didn’t suffer from any sudden vivid flashbacks, part of him had rather hoped he would.

Something the Doctor had told Camille clearly upset her, as she stopped in her tracks and though still a good 100 metres away her voice was loud enough for him to catch her words, “Why can’t he recover here?”

One of the men put a placating hand on the small of her back, and eased her back towards Richard and his mother. The Doctor and Commissioner were both still trying to convince her of something. She seemed to dismiss them, albeit as respectfully as she could with the Commissioner, and marched over.

“Do you want to go?” She asked him directly. He was at a complete loss for how to answer. He didn’t really like the fact he kept upsetting people. He looked to his Doctor for help.

“Detective Bordey, Richard and I have already come to the agreement that he will get the best care in the UK,” Cadet tried.

“There are Doctors on Saint Marie!” Camille protested.

“Nobody who is any kind of expert in this field, as I have told you.”

Camille just turned back to him and gave him a look, clearly asking the same question.

“Look, I think it might be for the best…” he tried awkwardly. He glanced at his mother, who was looking at Camille intently.

“I think you should stay here, where people care about you. We’ll look out for you, it’s where you belong,” she said decisively.

At this statement, his mother finally stood from the bench she’d been sitting on and looked like she was bristling with anger, “Excuse me, why would he be better off here than at home, with his family? Are you saying I can’t look after my son?”

Camille had actually forgotten Richard’s mother was there, and though she felt a little guilty for perhaps the way she had phrased things, she still thought what she said was true. She took a calming breath before trying to diffuse the situation.

“No, of course not Mrs Poole. I just think that Richard…” before she could finish Mrs Poole interrupted her.

“Inspector! He’s your superior, don’t forget it just because he’s lost his memory. See, you might take advantage of him!”

Richard might not have any memories of time of Saint Marie, but he was pretty sure that was a ridiculous idea, “Mum, I really don’t think…”

“Be quiet Darling, this doesn’t concern you,” his mother cut him off. “He is returning to the UK because it’s his _home_. He should never have been sent out here, look at what has happened! I can do my research, I know that these fugue states are brought on by stress and I doubt it was just the car crash. How could be happy out here, so far from his family and home?”

Camille looked like she’d been kicked in the gut, hard. Dwayne and Fidel were giving him an expectant look, clearly hoping he was going to clean this mess up.

“Mum, I doubt that’s true,” he tried to reason.

“You don’t know that!” his mother replied, and the problem was he really didn’t. He couldn’t deny it, and when he didn’t Camille just deflated completely. His head started to pound again, and he started to rub his forehead without even realising. Dr Cadet didn’t miss the action.

“Richard, are you suffering from a headache again?” He said, coming over and pulling that blasted penlight out of his jacket pocket. Richard was rather hoping he would have another fugue-whatever- it’s-called and forget the last ten minutes.

Dr Cadet told everyone very firmly that he thought his patient should get some more rest now, and even made his mother leave much to Richard’s relief. He watched his team walk away, and wondered if he ever would have known what to do to make it better.

 

* * *

 

The next day, his mother helped him pack things up at the beach shack he apparently lived in. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at a bowl of mashed up mangoes, which she threw away whilst complaining about insects having crawled into it and died. She was rather firm in telling him he would not be leaving food out like that once he was home.

At the airport, just before check in, a young officer ran in and clearly looked relieved to have caught them before they passed through security.

“Sir!” he cried happily. “I wanted you to have these before you go. Just so you have a few reminders of Saint Marie. I hope you get better soon, Sir.”

Richard took a rather stuffed padded envelope off the young officer and _really_ wished he could remember his name. He’d just been told yesterday for God’s sake.

“Thank you,” he said uselessly.

The young officer looked about as awkward as Richard felt, so at least at that moment they had that in common, “Well, have a safe trip Inspector.” And he walked away.

Richard may have then spent a good 15 minutes successfully avoiding going through security until his mother insisted they really _had_ to. He tried not to be disappointed Camille hadn’t come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mother-in-law/Daughter-in-law relationship is acknowledged as the most fraught of all familiar relationships. Looks like Camille and Richard’s Mum decided to get an early start on that in my head.


	3. Master Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, as I wanted what follows on from this to be a chapter on its own as its style will be different.

The night Inspector Poole left the island Dwayne, Fidel and Catherine could be found in the latter’s bar with rum cocktails of various strengths and quite glum expressions. Camille had declined to come out, claiming fatigue and a desire for an early night. They’d not pushed the issue with her.

Finally, Fidel spoke, “I think it’s good he went back to London. I’m not saying Saint Marie is backwards but they are going to have better doctors there, top of their field. He’ll get better and then he’ll come home.”

“You’re probably right,” Dwayne agreed. “Plus this way we avoid the whole weird factor. I mean, he was wearing a t-shirt at the hospital, that was weird enough, but one of the nurses told me he was _charming_. Can you imagine? I might actually have had to compete for the ladies with him, until he remembered who he was and went back to making an ass of himself.”

Catherine had not seen Richard since the accident, having her two attempts to visit fall firstly when Dr Cadet had decided on no visitors and secondly when his mother had been there, and she had not wanted to interrupt. She considered Dwayne’s words with some alarm.

“Was he really so different?” She asked.

The expressions on the men’s faces were enough of an answer, but Fidel added, “He clearly did not know who I was at the airport this morning. I’m glad I managed to catch him. At least we’ve done something, but I don’t think we should stop there. So, what’s stage two of the plan?”

Catherine and Dwayne looked at Fidel blankly, clearly having missed the memo where they had formed a committee to fix their current predicament.

“You know, to help the Chief get…back to normal.”

“Fidel I know you want to help, but we aren’t Doctors. You’re the one who pointed out he’s gone to London to get better,” Catherine told him gently.

Fidel wore his glum expression again.

* * *

 

Camille was becoming unbearable. They were expecting a new Inspector to be assigned from Turks and Caicos. The man was apparently close to retirement and had finished training his own replacement, and had agreed to come to Saint Marie to plug the hole left by Inspector Poole. Meanwhile, it appeared that any of the annoying personality traits Inspector Poole had lost when he hit his head Camille had started to channel. She had thrown herself into work, and had less time for relaxation that the Inspector had when he’d first arrived on the island.

It had been a whole week since the Chief returned to the UK, and as far as Dwayne and Fidel could tell nobody had heard from him. When Camille had finally left them alone to go talk to a witness on the other side of the island, Fidel thought it was safe to bring up his “get the chief better as soon as possible plan” again, but to his surprise Dwayne brought it up first.

“Right, we need to find a way to get them talking again, then she might actually relax for five minutes!”

“I suppose we could call him,” Dwayne gave him a look, but it was the best Fidel could come up with. “Hey, I mean it would be normal wouldn’t it? To check up on him?”

“Yeah, but are we going to have to go through his mother?” asked Dwayne, who had no desire to ever get on Mrs Justine Poole’s bad side after the brief time he spent in her company.

Fidel looked equally reluctant to take that risk, but suddenly brightened, “Why don’t we just try his mobile?”

Before he really knew what he was doing, he pulled out his own phone and rang his boss. Luckily, it was actually a decent hour in the UK.

“Hello Sir, this is Sergeant Fidel Best from Saint Marie, the one who saw you in the airport before you left?”

“Oh right, you alright?” The Inspector sounded a little lost.

“I’m fine Sir, we, well, just wanted to see how you were doing?”

Richard tried to think of something positive to say, clearly the young man was hoping for good news. When he’d opened that packet given to him at the airport, he’d found several photographs amongst other things. Weirdly, the people in the photographs did not seem as unfamiliar to him as they did when he’d seen them in the flesh. He was sure his psychiatrist would have some wonderful explanation for why, but he hadn’t told her. When he’d come across a shot of Fidel with a young child, he’d felt a surge of pride but had no clue why.

In the end, the best response he could come up with was, “My life is very weird.”

“I can’t imagine, Sir. Well, if you ever have any questions you know, maybe if you’re trying to piece something together or place a memory, you could just call. Dwayne or Camille or I would always be willing to answer...”

Dwayne actually looked like he’d rather not have been volunteered for that task. Wasn’t that he didn’t want the chief back, more that he didn’t think he was the best person for the job. Not exactly the patient type, unlike Camille who is the one Fidel should really be working on getting Richard to talk to.

At the other end of the phone, Richard paused before asking, “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course Sir, why would you say that…uh, apart from the whole not remembering anything…I suppose you would actually want to check I wasn’t just being polite.”

“No, actually, it’s just,” Richard took a deep breath, because he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. “Doesn’t Camille hate me?”

Fidel had to resist the urge to laugh, “No Sir, I can assure you she does not hate you.”

“But…I remember a few things and we just, didn’t we fight all the time? I can remember telling her to go back to Guadeloupe. Not to mention the fact we were fighting that night, weren’t we? And I know I said something awful, something I shouldn’t have, but I don’t remember what it was.”

“You did bicker Sir,” Fidel said, rather diplomatically. “And I don’t know what happened after you left the station but I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.”

Dwayne rolled his eyes and grabbed the handset off Richard, “Chief, you’re going to have to call her because after that incident with your mother she probably thinks you hate her. Now, she should be back in about an hour. Have you still got the number for her desk? Yes? Good. Why don’t you call and ask how she is. Women love that. Talk later Chief!”

And with that proclamation, Dwayne put down the phone, and looked up to find Fidel staring at him wide-eyed, “What? It needed to be said!”

“Do you think he’ll call?”

“He will if he knows what is good for him!”

 

 


	4. Landlines and Lifelines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been looking forward to writing this chapter

When Camille did return, Fidel asked if she wanted them to go canvas the market for witnesses to an assault the previous night, and she agreed it seemed a sensible idea. Dwayne was not best pleased with him, but Fidel thought it was best the leave Camille alone for the conversation she would hopefully be having.

“Don’t you want to know if he calls?” Dwayne complained once they were out of ear shot.

“I think it’ll be pretty obvious if he has when we get back,” Fidel chided him.

“But we won’t know what was said!” This was just met by one of Fidel’s disapproving looks, which had increased in intensity since his promotion. That boy was becoming less fun by the day.

 

* * *

 

Camille regretted sending the other officers off when the phone rang, it was probably just some tourist who’d lost a wallet and she didn’t really have the patience for such enquiries recently.

“Honore Police Station, Detective Sergeant Bordey speaking.”

“Camille?” The sound of his voice set her heart rate climbing.

“Richard…Sir?” she asked uncertainly, wondering if perhaps her recent lack of sleep was resulting in auditory hallucinations.

“Oh, don’t call me Sir. Um, are you okay?”

“Me? You’re the one who had a car crash and got moved to the other side of the world, Sir.”

“Didn’t I just say don’t call me Sir? I’m not anyone’s superior and it is _weird_ ,” He sounded genuinely exasperated. “Look about what my Mother said, just…ignore her. I might not remember much but gut feeling tells me she was talking bollocks.”

“She was looking out for you I suppose.”

“Yes, I haven’t needed to regain any memories to figure out my mother is rather over-protective. Sometimes I think she’s the one who should be seeing the head doctor.”

“Are you…? Have you..? I mean…”

“Not so much, but a bit here and there. I was wondering you know if maybe I could call occasionally if I perhaps need help placing a memory...”

“Yes,” Camille said quickly. “Whenever you want. Or even if you just want to talk about life in general. Just ring.”

“Great, that’s great. I have to go before my Mother starts to wonder why I’ve been hiding down the back of the garden so long. I’m supposed to be weeding, she thinks I look pale and need to spend more time outdoors. I have no idea how I managed to come back from the Caribbean so pale.”

“Because you burn easily, so you wore factor 50 sunscreen and stayed out of direct sunlight all the time. You barely took off your jacket let alone wore short sleeves so the sun could not physically reach you,” She told him, smiling fondly at memories of him complaining about the heat and ignoring any and all suggestions on how to modify his dress appropriately.

“Wasn’t I really hot all the time?”

“Yes,” she told him, still smiling. “And you made sure we knew about it.”

“God that must have been annoying. Speaking of annoying, I can see my Mother watching me from the upstairs window, I better get back to tackling the ivy. Bye.”

He hung up before she could say her own farewell, and Camille found herself with a little niggling worry to the way he’d responded to her description of him. Had it come off negative? She couldn’t deny at times it _was_ annoying but it was also so very _him_ , and they’d just all learnt to accept it.

 

* * *

 

 

When Camille saw the caller ID, she was a little perplexed, “Isn’t it the middle of the night in the UK?”

“Yes, but it’s not there right?” Richard replied.

“Nope, it’s just gone six. Are you okay?”

There was a pause, where in her mind’s eye she could see Richard gathering his thoughts, she expected him to ask something probably personal rather hesitantly, but she was actually surprised by the directness of his question, “Look I asked Fidel and he said you and I would fight, but it wasn’t a big deal. But now I’ve just woken up and I can clearly remember you sitting on my bed crying your eyes out and I can remember how I felt about that and so clearly I must be some kind of asshole!”

Camille tried to temper her surprise that he’d spoken to Fidel about their relationship, she’d be questioning the young officer about that later, “Oh really, how did you feel?”

“Really annoyed, I was wishing you’d stop blubbering so I could get a straight answer out of you. God, admitting that’s hardly going to endear you to me anymore, is it?”

She giggled, which just left Richard feeling even more confused than he normally was, “What? How is this funny?”

“Oh you’ve got the memory all out of context, that’s all. I’m glad you called. That was the first time we met. I was undercover, pretending to be a cleaner for Charlie Hulme whom I was investigating. But then you turn up and tell me he’s dead, you’ve been sent to Saint Marie from London to investigate his killing, so I decided to play the part of the somewhat _devoted_ cleaner. Plus I was hoping you’d feel so sorry for me you’d keep me on as a cleaner and I’d be able to continue searching the property.”

“Oh,” Said Richard. He sounded almost disappointed that he was not, as he had so delicately put it, an asshole. “I suppose that’s ok then.”

“You should go back to sleep and not worry about it. Goodnight.”

“Yeah, night.”

 

* * *

 

 

“There is a chance I am going to murder my Mother.”

It was a Sunday, and Camille was sat on the beach reading when her phone rang. She was a little taken aback by the warm fuzzy feeling that occurred at the sound of the irate voice.

“You’ll have to come arrest me. Have your revenge for that time I arrested you. Which I think was reasonably justified…”

“You still didn’t know I was a police officer,” she said succinctly. “Why are you going to kill your mother?”

“She’s been exposing me to a parade of every woman I’ve apparently _ever_ shown an interest in. I suspect, however, that if my memory was intact I would struggle to remember half of them and she’s just using my amnesia as an excuse to try to set me up with women she approves of. One of them was apparently my piano teacher’s daughter, though I’m pretty sure if she wasn’t recently divorced Mum wouldn’t have invited her over for dinner. You see the other strange thing about all these women is they all happen to be single, which seems a bit too much of a coincidence. Or perhaps I am simply so amazing I have ruined them for other men, but I have the feeling you’ll tell me that’s unlikely.”

Camille giggle and then told him, “You make it sound like a lot of women, Richard. I mean my mother makes me go on blind dates occasionally as well.”

“10 women in 2 weeks Camille. Do you know how hard it is to make small talk when most of your life history is missing?”

Camille was trying to pretend she wasn’t panicking just a little at Richard’s mother’s obvious attempts to get him to settle down. After all, if he did like one of these women, then his reasons to return to Saint Marie would start to dwindle.

Richard understood her lack of answer as an inability to think of a suitable one, “No, of course you don’t, though it was actually supposed to be a rhetorical question anyway. Anyway, if I end up charged with killing her I want somebody to have known my suffering. And now I have had my fill of winging, how are you?”

She wanted to tell him she missed him, and that he should come home. That whenever she looked at his desk and saw somebody else sitting there, she felt a pang of sadness even though it had been weeks since he’d left. That she’d taken to praying to whatever God might be listening that he’d get better. Instead, she told him she was a fine. Her mother would tell her that not saying how she felt was a habit she’d picked up from Richard, and she’d be right.

 

* * *

 

 

He hardly ever opened with Hello, “Did you know I spoke Mandarin Chinese?”

Camille thought about it, “Yes, you mentioned it once, but I never heard you speak it or anything.”

“Well I suppose French would have come in more handy that Chinese.”

“Oh you _definitely_ don’t speak French,” her tone had perhaps more vehemence than she intended.

“Well I must have spoken a little? I mean even if I came to Saint Marie knowing only half a dozen phrases surely I would have picked some of it up?”

Camille rolled her eyes, which was pretty pointless since he couldn’t see her, “Well if you did you kept it to yourself because you refused to speak it.”

“Right,” he sounded contemplative, and Camille couldn’t help but notice he’d lost the enthusiasm he’d had at the start of the conversation.

“So did you wake up speaking Mandarin this morning?” She asked, trying to get the conversation back to its original topic.

“Nearly that actually! This woman turned up yesterday and it was weird because I couldn’t remember who she was but at the same time I knew I hadn’t seen her in a really long time and I was happy to see her. So I hugged her, which seemed to really confuse her…”

“You don’t really hug people,” Camille told him.

“What am I? OCD and afraid I’ll catch their germs?”

It was very weird to try and explain somebodies behaviour to them, especially when you weren’t entirely sure why they acted that way in the first place, “No, you just aren’t very…touchy-feely.”

“Well I don’t think hugging somebody you’ve missed is touchy-feely but okay, I guess.”

They’d gotten off topic again, “So what about this woman then?”

“Well apparently we once did some undercover work. She debriefed me on what we did because it’s a little bit classified and just warned me off sharing any memories of that time with anyone but my therapist, who apparently has security clearance. Anyway at the end of the conversation she told me I should practise my Mandarin more because my accent had gotten awful and it turned out we’d had the whole conversation in Chinese.”

Camille was a little taken aback by the story, “Are you telling me you were some kind of spy?”

“Well that sounds really cool so let’s go with yes. But what I’m actually saying is that at one point I worked for special branch, yes. I suppose you wouldn’t have known that, it’s sort of nice to think I actually knew something about myself you didn’t already know.”

“You know I actually can imagine it,” Camille told him playfully. “Though maybe more Johnny English than James Bond.”

There was a pause, before Richard said, “I think that reference may have been lost on me.”

Another redundant eye roll followed.

 

 

* * *

 

“Hello Richard, how are you?”

“I’m good, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, bored really, no open cases at the moment.”

“Well, I was hoping you might have a reason for what I did today.”

Camille really wasn’t sure where this was going, “What did you do today?”

“I bought a pet lizard. I had just gone to buy some milk and I walked past this exotic pet shop like I do every day, except today I walk in and buy a lizard and all the stuff that comes with it. A Carolina anole to be precise, my mother is not happy. She can’t figure out why I’d want a lizard for a pet and off the top of my head nor can I - but I have no plans on giving him back. I just wondered if you had any ideas.”

“You don’t remember Harry?” She asked, hoping the name would magically trigger a flood of memories. Actually she hoped that would happen every time they spoke.

“Nope, sorry.”

“Well he’s a little lizard who lives in your house. Wild, but you named him Harry and you used to feed him. Don’t worry, I convinced the new Inspector to keep leaving out food for him.”

“Ok, well, at least now when I argue with my mother I can assure her it wasn’t the brain injury that made me buy the lizard.”

 

* * *

 

Camille was a little surprised when he rang her again a mere hour later.

“Prevention is better than cure, they say that right?”

“Yes…”

“Well in order to prevent me killing my Mother, which I think would be a cure for many of my problems, I think it’s about time I moved out.”

“Is it because she said you can’t keep the lizard?”

“It’s not _just_ that,” he said defensively. “It’s just plain weird living with my parents at my age. My mother got upset when I mentioned it but Dad is calming her down. And I can definitely afford to because I looked in my bank account after buying all the lizard stuff and found there was two hundred and fifty grand in it. Apparently, I sold my house just before I ended up back here. I had no idea I even owned a house, well I owned most of it.”

“You sold your house?”

“Yeah, so I’ll use some of the money to rent a place and see how it goes.”

“Why did you sell your house?” She asked before realising what a stupid question it was. If he didn’t remember selling it, he’d hardly remember _why_ he did it. She was reeling from the revelation though, her heart racing. Because what she had here was evidence, proof of something she’d denied because she’d been too afraid and too stupid to see it.

He didn’t answer her question, he seemed instead to pick up on her change in mood, “Are you alright?”

No, I mean, yes, I mean. I just realised I was wrong about something. I’ll have to fix it sometime soon.”

“Okaaaay…”

 

* * *

 

She tried to time her call for when she thought he would have actually finished moving his stuff in, “Are you all finished up?”

“Yeah, I think so. I was just staring at the oven trying to remember if I can cook. Can I?”

“Um, I never saw you cook but then you never seemed to be starving to death so you must have fed yourself somehow.”

“Oh well, moving house probably deserves take away anyhow. Plus I suspect if I open the freezer I will find about a hundred Tupperware containers filled with my mother’s cooking.”

She laughed, knowing that she came home sometimes herself to find her mother had let herself in and filled Camille’s fridge with food.

“You never really told me what your new place is like?”

“Oh it’s very practical. It’s a flat, got a nice view of the park. It’s got two bedrooms.”

Camille got the impression that last statement hadn’t been as innocuous as the others, “Oh so your mother can stay over?”

“Ha ha. She’s only a twenty minute walk away, I’m already wondering if I should have moved further. No, but I mean people _could_ come and stay. For example, I mean it’s a long way and it isn’t cheap so I’m not, you know, asking you to but if you happen to want to take a holiday to London or something you could stay here. For free. As long as you like lizards.”

Camille was pretty certain she had a stupid smile on her face, “I think that sounds like a really good idea.”


	5. The Shrink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only planned the one scene in this chapter, but then I decided to build upon it. It allows me to provide more information about Richard’s current situation.

“Sometimes I think you’re more interested in writing some paper about me then getting me better.”

Dr Amelia Conner considered her response carefully, “My number one priority is your welfare Richard, however you are aware that your condition is very rare and in order to learn more about it I may occasionally ask you to take part in tasks that may not be directly related to your recovery. However I have always made it clear such tasks are voluntary, have I not?”

“Yes,” he conceded. “But then the results always seem to fascinating to you and I wonder if you want me to go back to normal.”

“I’m glad you’re being open about this Richard,” Dr Conner told him. “I will be honest, your results are fascinating. As you know I was the police psychologist who assessed you at the academy, and then before and after the work you did for Special Branch. As a consequence I truly understand the dramatic changes to your personality.”

“You mean like how my empathy quotient has jumped 15 points from below average to within normal ranges for a male? Or how my IQ remains the same, but I’m no longer some sort of narcissist who feels the need to show off just how smart he is? Oh and let’s not forget that apparently it’s very interesting that my accuracy with firearms is the same as before the accident, except now I seem to show a much greater confidence in their use.”

Dr Conner was taken aback, “How do you know that Richard?”

“You know Tuesday when you had to deal with a patient who’d come in out of the blue? I read my file whilst you were out of the room.”

“I was gone for 5 minutes!” Amelia exclaimed.

“Speed-reading, another skill I have apparently retained,” he said, nodding his head towards the file.

“You know, before the events that triggered your current state Richard you would never have _dared_ read your file if I’d left the room. And as I have already admitted, I do find that highly interesting. You are also right about something else, I don’t want you back to normal, not necessarily. What I want is for you to feel comfortable with who you are, weather that is with your memories or not,” She leaned forward and tried to catch his eye, but he was staring resolutely at the floor. “Did what you read bother you, Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know if I want to go back to being the emotionally retarded arrogant know-it-all I apparently was.”

Dr Conner felt a pang of sympathy for her patient, “Richard, at no point in my notes about you now or then did I ever call you emotionally retarded or narcissistic. I get the idea that these are conclusions you have drawn, and I don’t think they just came from what is written in that file.”

“I haven’t remembered that much more,” he said, and she believed him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t holding something back. For the first time, she felt like she might be seeing the influence of his true personality.

“No, but maybe there is something you haven’t told me yet. I know that I must seem like somebody you should be wary of, after all I can sign you off for work again. But it is literally a signature, I never discuss with your superiors anything you tell me here. I tell them you’re ready or you aren’t, and they have to take my word for it.”

Richard reached into his rucksack and pulled out an envelope. From it, he removed a single photograph, which he passed to Amelia. She scrutinised it quickly, clearly a candid shot of Richard with another woman, smiling at each other. As a psychologist she could probably draw a lot of conclusions about the relationship between the two individuals from their body language alone. But she needed to know what Richard thought of the photograph.

“Tell me about this,” she said, placing it on the low table that separated the two of them.

“As I was leaving Saint Marie, one of the officers came to the airport and gave me this envelope full of photographs and other keep sakes. I assume he was trying to help.”

“That seems likely. Do you remember when this photo was taken?”

“No,” he said rather unhelpfully, and she scolded herself for asking a closed question.

“Who is the woman?”

“Camille, she’s a detective on Saint Marie.”

“Yes, of course, you’ve remained in quite close contact with her. What is it about this photograph that bothers you, Richard?”

He hesitated, and then let everything go at once, “I don’t remember anything about that night that photo was taken. I don’t know where we are, or who is taking the photo. But I do remember exactly how I felt. When I look at it, I remember how I felt at that exact moment.”

“And how did you feel?”

He didn’t answer, his face clearly said he had no intention of doing so.

“Richard, fugue states are triggered by stressful events. The car crash was a major contributing factor, but other stresses and worries would have contributed to it. We need to look at your life from before the accident and help you deal with those issues. Now I’m not stupid Richard, I can surmise a lot about your feelings from this photograph alone, but I’d rather know you were willing to work with me on this.”

“It’s just so… _stupid_!” He said, frustration evident.

“What is?”

“Knowing you are in love with somebody even though you barely remember anything about them! I don’t know when my own mother’s birthday is, but I know that I’m in love with her. It’s not even allowed!”

Dr Conner allowed a small pause for Richard to get over the explosive nature of his statement, it seemed to have come as more of a shock to him than to her, “I’m not going to deny that you have found yourself in a very strange situation here Richard. You know I can remember a quote from my degree, ‘That which we have not thought deeply about is soon forgotten’. Though I can’t remember who said it…”

She won a brief smile from her patient, “I think here, we might be dealing with the opposite. You probably, quite naturally, spent a lot of time considering your feelings for this woman. As you have pointed out such a relationship would have been frowned upon. Perhaps the level of thought given to the matter made it harder to erase than other memories. We also have to consider the fact that you have received news of your transfer back to the UK, which would take you away from somebody you feel certain you are in love with, and I think anyone would also find that highly stressful.”

“You think that all of,” he gestured vaguely in the air. “This, led to the fugue state.”

“I think we have to consider the possibility. I certainly think that dealing with your feelings for her will be an important step in ensuring good mental health.”

“So I need to try and get over her? I have been giving it a go.”

Amelia resisted the urge to sigh, she really wished that Richard had discussed this with her rather than deciding his own treatment, “Why do you have to ‘get over her’?”

Richard looked at her like the question was the most ridiculous he’d ever heard, “Well she hardly feels the same!”

“Do you remember her rejecting you?”

“No.”

“Then what evidence do you have to draw that conclusion?” She asked.

Richard looked reluctant to answer, “I’m…me. Or was. She can do a lot better than me.”

“I think we need to talk through those self-esteem issues as well. I want you to start writing down evidence for and against these negative thoughts you have about yourself in time for next week.”

“Uh, about that,” Richard had shrunk in his seat a little, and Dr Conner wondered what on Earth he was going to surprise her with this time. “Could we maybe skip next week?”

“For what reason?” She asked, curiously.

“Camille is coming to visit,” this was said rather quickly, Amelia got the impression in the hopes she’d actually miss the name.

“Well then, that is interesting. And for how long?”

“A week.”

“Okay, Richard, I would like you to do me a favour. Take it as a holiday, I mean how many Londoners can actually act as tourists in their own city? And I absolutely do not want you to make any assumptions about how she feels about you. I would like it if you could find out for certain what you were fighting about the night of the accident, as I think that would help us make progress, but don’t bring it up unless you feel comfortable doing so.”

“That’s quite a lot of favours,” he told her rather cheekily.

“Well consider it revenge for you dropping bombshells on me all session. Call me if you feel the need to discuss anything.”


	6. Some Vacation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MaddieStJ for the beta.

It seemed a very strange way to start the vacation his therapist had ordered him to treat this week as.  He looked down at the single grave his grandparents shared. Flowers from the anniversary of his grandmother’s death six weeks before had still been present, looking very sad indeed, though perhaps not as sad as other graves that had been bare so much longer. He’d cleared them off and put them in the appropriate bin before putting down his own small offering.

The woman beside him shifted, perhaps a little uncomfortable with the situation, and he felt a sudden pang of familiarity.

“Have we done this before?” he asked her, struggling to visualise the situation.

“Yes!” She said brightly, before realising her tone was not sombre enough for the cemetery. “You remember that?”

“I think I do. Listen, thanks for coming and for all your help. I think it would have upset Mum lots if I’d had to ask where they were buried.”

“Searching the records isn’t hard, I imagine you would have done it yourself if you could remember how. Look Richard, I didn’t mean to…what I mean to say is...I hate to think I triggered some painful memories for you. If you don’t want to see Edie or, well me, again then…”

“Oh come on,” Richard admonished her as he turned to look at her. “I loved that dog and my grandparents.  I’m glad to have those memories back. You weren’t to know Edie would make that dash into the road.  I could have seen any bloody dog and probably have remembered. So of course I still want to see you, Clara, or are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No! I _knew_ you wouldn’t say you don’t want to spend time together anymore. After all, I AM the main thing keeping your mother off your back,” Clara teased him. “Are you sure you’ll be okay looking after Edie for a couple of days?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m pretty sure Camille likes most animals.”

Clara’s smile only faltered a millimetre at the mention of Camille’s name, but Richard still noticed it and felt a bit guilty, “I’ll take Edie to Coombe Wood and let him chase squirrels, it’s hilarious. Shall we go get him settled in before I go to the airport?”

 

* * *

 

 

Richard left Edie the Newfoundland in his flat with the largest chewy treat they’d sold at Pets at Home in the hopes it would keep him busy until he got back from Heathrow. And he had hidden all of his shoes just in case. He took the bus out to Heathrow, even though he was pretty sure he could still drive the accident hadn’t exactly left him with an overwhelming desire to get behind the wheel. Mind, if he’d been driving then maybe he’d be able to concentrate on something other than how stupidly nervous he felt. He must have come up with about sixty worse case scenarios for what could happen during the week. He would have asked Clara if he was dressed okay, but she might have given him _that_ look again.

 

* * *

 

Camille should have read a book or something. She didn’t feel prepared. There were times when she’d spoken to him on the phone he’d seemed like the man she’d always known.  Then other times he seemed to be like an entirely different person - but not one that she actively disliked. She retrieved her suitcase from baggage reclaim smiling at the memory of Richard ranting about his own lost bag. Then she grew contemplative again as she wondered if she was allowed to tell him that story, or if she was supposed to let him remember things by himself.

She’d prepared herself to not be disappointed if he was dressed overly casually. She also decided to make sure she didn’t look too excited if he was wearing his usual suit and tie. Happy to see him, that was what she was going for, she told herself. However, not even the fact he was wearing trousers and a shirt (no tie, but hey half way there) could counteract the fact he’d grown a beard.

As a consequence of this shock it ended up being her greeting, “You grew a beard!”

“I’m fine, Camille, thanks for asking,” he said taking her bag off her. “Yes, I’ve settled in really well at the flat.  How was your flight?”

She supposed she deserved the sarcasm, “They upgraded me to business class. I’ve never flown it before. And sorry, but it is…very…different?”

“Well, I was getting fed up of not recognising my own face in the mirror and I wanted to do something to make me feel like it was my face. Is it that awful?”

“No, it’s just a surprise,” she lied.

She hated it.

 

* * *

 

 

After a good-natured argument about which one of them would carry what bags up the stairs, they managed to negotiate their way into the apartment. A skittering sound caused Camille to whip around quickly, and she jumped a little at the site of a rather large _Terre-neuve_ skidding around the corner on the parquet floor. Evidently the dog was not intending to attack, he was just happy to see them, although he did almost knock Camille over when he attempted to climb up her.

“Edie! Get down Edie. Leave her alone. Sorry, he likes new people and he’s only a year old, still a puppy really,” Richard encouraged the dog to sit calmly, and Camille rewarded Edie with a bit of a fuss.

“You bought a dog,” she said, careful to keep her tone neutral.

“Oh he’s not mine,” called Richard, who’d disappeared off around the corner with her case. “Somebody I know needed a dog sitter on very short notice. I was 87% sure you didn’t mind dogs, so please tell me you don’t hate them and you don’t mind!”

When he came back around the corner, he must have assumed Camille’s smile was to reassure him, but actually she was relieved. It might seem stupid, but getting a dog seemed like more of a step towards staying in the UK permanently, and it was that thought she’d latched onto when she first saw the animal.

“No, he’s beautiful. Though aren’t you afraid he’ll eat your lizard?” She teased.

“My lizard’s contained to his Vivarium, and he seems to prefer it in there anyway. I think it’s too cold for him in the flat on the whole. I moved the tank into my bedroom, and there is no way I’m letting Edie in there as he’d probably smother me in my sleep when he’s only trying to be friendly.”

From the way Edie was responding to Camille’s fussing over him though, Richard got the feeling he soon wouldn’t be the dog’s favourite. He also found himself just a little bit jealous.

“God, look at me just leaving you standing in the hall.  You must be really tired and hungry after the flight.”

“Actually it’s a lot easier to sleep in business class.  The food, though, isn’t much better than coach.”

Richard looked a little uneasy. “Yeah, I, um, haven’t remembered how to cook yet. I did try but I sort of…set fire to it. The food, not the oven. Apparently, according to my mother, I never could cook, so I don’t know what I was eating on Saint Marie…”

“Mango and squished bugs?” Camille suggested playfully.

Richard’s face was, for a few moments, the embodiment of confusion, but then the reference seemed to suddenly click with him, “Oh! It was mango I fed Harry, not guava. God, what am I going to do with all the guava I bought?”

Camille couldn’t help but laugh at his distress, “I _like_ guava.”

“Oh well then, that’s dinner sorted.”

* * *

 

They didn’t just have guava for dinner. Turned out Richard was able to remember the phone number for take away perfectly well. He’d offered to take her out for dinner but she hadn’t minded the idea of staying in after the long flight. All evening, she couldn’t help feeling like she was searching for him - the ‘old’ Richard - in everything he did or said. In many ways the man before her now, this stranger, was everything she’d tried to get Richard to be when they were off duty, much more relaxed and open. His general sense of humour seemed intact, though the normal acerbic remarks were much more tempered and he seemed to have become _very_ self-deprecating to the point where it was almost annoying.

Camille didn’t know why she couldn’t be happy. Back on Saint Marie, she’d had to work very hard to get him to be this open, but perhaps that was it. Her doggedness and patience ended up with her being rewarded with him opening up, however briefly. There was no challenge here, and THAT bothered her more than it should.

When Richard got up the next morning, he found Edie lying forlornly outside of Camille’s bedroom door. He barely raised his head to acknowledge Richard’s presence; this despite the fact Richard had quite often taken him out for walks. Just because Camille had fussed over him all evening and shared her chips with him…

“Yeah, I think I’d prefer her to me as well, too,” he admitted.

When Camille got around to getting up ten minutes later, a very happy Newfoundland followed her into the kitchen. Richard was in the process of proving his statement the previous evening false, as he had managed to produce scrambled eggs, toast and bacon. Camille fed Edie a rasher of bacon when she thought Richard wasn’t looking.

“Are you using the dog as a food tester, to make sure I’m not going to poison us both?”

Camille looked abashed, and Richard tried not to think about how cute it was. “I just thought he looked hungry,” she said.

Richard just shook his head. “Do you want to take him to Hampstead Heath? We could let him go for a swim since it’s an all right day.”

Edie went mental at the word ‘swim’, in a similar manner to most dogs when they hear ‘walkies’.

Camille laughed as the Newfoundland raced about the kitchen and almost knocked Richard over in his glee. “I don’t think we have a choice in the matter.”

 

* * *

 

Why had he suggested Hampstead Heath? The only logical way to get a dog the size of Edie to Hampstead was via car.  He could hardly carry him down the escalators on the underground and although there were other routes, no one was going to thank him for dragging a wet smelly dog onto public transport. It simply wasn’t the done thing. So here he was, staring at his father’s estate that he was apparently insured to drive, wondering if he was about to lose some serious face. He was utterly grateful that his Mother and Father weren’t home; he’d rung his Dad on the mobile and he’d told him to help himself. In fact his father had seemed quite pleased he’d planned to take the car out, he probably thought Richard had developed some sort of PTSD about driving them.

The thing was, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t. Camille showed off her talent for reading people (and in that moment reminded him of how much he had relied on her for that skill) by regarding him carefully and asking if he was okay.

“Well, you know, last time I drove a car I did crash it,” he said dismissively.

“Well, if you aren’t ready I’m sure we could find an alternative.”

“No! I’m perfectly able to drive,” he snapped at her, opening the boot and watching Edie bound happily in. He turned and found Camille looking annoyed.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

He got in the driver’s seat and she climbed in beside him, so she clearly didn’t hate him that much for his outburst. He started the car, put it into gear and then eased up the clutch, but the car didn’t move.

“You didn’t take the handbrake off,” Camille stated helpfully.

“I know! I was just, um, checking to see where the bite point of the clutch was. I can’t remember the last time I drove this car.” He was pretty sure she rolled her eyes.

Camille was no help at all as Edie dragged Richard excitedly along. Walking this dog was probably better exercise than any gym could provide. Richard knew Clara had driven the dog up here occasionally, and Edie certainly seemed to know where he was going, though Richard had a mad idea Edie might be about to plunge into the ladies’ pool and make several rather redundant rescue attempts.

Luckily Edie took a sharp right turn and dragged them into one of the many small types of woodland that dotted the heath. Behind him Camille slowed, apparently examining the canopy with some interest.

“It’s a bit like a fairy tale,” she said absently. Richard gave her a somewhat disbelieving look. “The rainforest in Saint Marie never quite seemed like the right setting for Snow White when I was a child.” She noticed the fidgeting dog.  “Unless you want to go in the pond with Edie I suggest you let him off the lead now.”

Richard watched the dog jump in and paddle about with abandon. “Easily pleased aren’t they? Not like humans.”

“I have everything I need right now,” Camille said smiling, and he felt really rather uncomfortable.

* * *

 

 

They ended up spending the whole day tramping around the heath, sustaining themselves on ice creams (even though it was quite dull) and sandwiches bought from the café on Parliament Hill. Camille seemed enchanted by the views of the city, and the very idea that London should boast such a wild place in its centre. They ended up nearly as muddy as Edie. Richard was forced to buy several newspapers to protect the car, cursing himself for not having thought of bringing any towels along for the animal.

He got Camille to hold onto the animal whilst he ran upstairs to grab towels and the dog brush Clara had also thoughtfully left for him. He left his own mud-caked shoes outside of the door, thinking he’d hose them down outside later. Luckily, Edie seemed sufficiently tired from his day out to be co-operative with the mission of cleaning him up, and Camille’s laugh made the humiliation of the dog licking Richard’s face enthusiastically somehow worthwhile.

He traipsed up the stairs first and got the flat unlocked again, Camille and the dog behind. First instinct through the door was to put the kettle on (he really needed tea) but when he turned around to ask Camille if she wanted any he felt the sort of indignation that hadn’t plagued him since he had departed his parents’ house. Camille had walked into the kitchen still kitted out in her muddy boots.

“Oh for God’s sake! What was the point of the last 15 minutes cleaning the dog up if you’re going to come in and get mud everywhere?” he asked irritably.

“Alright, sorry, I’ll clean it up,” Camille tried to pacify him. As soon as she uttered those words Edie marched in behind her, having retrieved one of Richard’s muddy boots from next to the door, which he plonked down in the middle of the kitchen and began to chew on. Camille looked between him and the boot like she was waiting for an explosion, but what she didn’t expect was Richard laughing.

“Oh never mind, it’s just a bit of mud,” he said amusement still colouring his tone as he retrieved, with a brief struggle, his boot from the mouth of the Newfoundland. When he looked up, Camille seemed almost upset by his lack of irritation. “What?”

“You should be angry, I messed up your kitchen. You like things neat.”

“Well I’m not going to leave it muddy forever.  I just don’t think I should have snapped at you.”

“I think you should have,” Camille countered.

“And I think that is the strangest thing anyone has ever said to me, despite the fact I can’t remember most of my life…”

Now she looked almost despondent, and Richard felt utterly lost – a feeling he was pretty certain was quite a common occurrence when in her vicinity. He did still like things neat, so that he could find them, but he really didn’t like the idea that he would have been the kind of person to have a go at somebody for a bit of mud. The sort of person who alphabetized their bookshelves and was a bit of a grammar Nazi. The problem was, he knew deep down he’d been both of these things, and now Camille was standing in front of him looking for that person again. He also knew he really didn’t like to see her upset, even if he thought what she was upset about was a bit mental, so he threw her a bone.

“Of course, just so you know, I’m not inviting you to spend the rest of the evening around the flat in the boots, so can you get them off before there is more mud to clear up thank you very much.”

She huffed, pulling her boots off as she walked away.

He remembered never being able to understand her.

That much hadn’t changed.

 


	7. Tension

When Camille got up the next morning, she wondered into the kitchen she found Richard slipping on his jacket.

“We’re out of milk,” he said by way of explanation. “Can’t have tea without milk. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“I think I’ll have a shower,” she thought she detected a slight pause in his movements towards leaving the flat, as if the thought of her in the shower had distracted him momentarily. She found that thought oddly satisfying. He gave her a wave as he went out the door and she headed back to her room, trying to look up the weather on her phone so she could decide what to wear.

It was actually only five minutes later when she heard the door open, and Edie barking excitedly. She hadn’t made it to the shower, as she was trying to figure out what outfit intermittent showers justified.

“Richard are we going to be indoors most of the day?” She was still looking down at her phone when she entered the kitchen, and almost dropped her phone when she realised Richard was not the one who had entered the flat. Instead stood before her, fussing over Edie, was a handsome woman Richard’s age.

Said woman politely came forward and offered a hand to Camille, “Sorry I hope I didn’t scare you, I knocked but perhaps you didn’t hear? I’m Clara Barlow, Edie’s owner.”

Camille managed to shake the other woman’s hand, but couldn’t quite get over the fact that she must have a key to Richard’s place. A beautiful woman, Richard’s age, had a key to his flat and trusted him to look after her dog. None of the explanations she was coming up with were pleasing to her, which probably why she hadn’t actually said anything. She was also very aware that she was in the kitchen in a pair of old shorts and a strappy top she was wearing as pajamas.

The silence was clearly making Claire or whatever her name was uncomfortable because she asked, “You’re Camille, right?”

Camille pulled herself together enough to manage a reply, “Uh, yes, I…worked, work, with Richard, in Saint Marie.”

“Yes,” She said very quickly. “Yes, he’s spoken about you. He and I knew each other as teens, his mother re-introduced us recently. Perhaps he told you about me?”

“No,” Camille said rather bluntly, and almost immediately felt guilty for her rudeness. Jealousy did not become her. Claire, no Clara, if she detected Camille’s attempted dig chose to ignore it. Perhaps because she was secure in her relationship with Richard, perhaps because she was too polite to do otherwise, Camille didn’t know.

“Well, Richard kindly agreed to look after Edie for a few days after I got put on a training course in Manchester at the last minute. I hope he behaved himself. I assume Richard’s not here?”

“He went to buy milk, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

The second awkward silence was luckily broken after only a few moments by the sound of a key in the lock followed by Edie’s inevitable excited bark. Richard walked in blathering on about how they only had full cream at the shop but came to an abrupt stop when he realised there were two women in his kitchen eyeing each other up cautiously.

“Clara!” His greeting was cheerful. “How was Manchester?”

You didn’t need to be a detective to see how pleased Clara was to see him, Camille concluded. The smile she gave Richard was ten times more genuine than the one she had received. She acted like Camille wasn’t even in the room anymore.

“Oh it rained the whole time I was there, you know what the north is like. I hope the weather was better here?”

“Overcast, but it didn’t actually rain.”

Camille apparently hadn’t berated herself hard enough for being rude earlier, as she made a scoffing noise at their topic of conversation.

“Yes, we’re English, we talk about the weather,” Richard said pleasantly.

“I better go,” Clara told Richard, and Camille felt a wave of relief. Rapidly followed by a wave of displeasure when Richard asked her, “You sure you don’t want to stay for some breakfast?”

Clara shook her head, but Camille didn’t miss the sideways glance she gave her and nor did Richard. She squeezed Richard’s shoulder as she slid past him with Edie now on the leash.

As soon as the door shut behind Clara, Richard turned to Camille and raised his eyebrows at her. “What?” she asked defensively.

“I don’t know, seemed a little tense between the two of you,” He continued to level her with a look, not going to push the matter but not quite willing to let it go.

“Have you been together long?” She ventured, instead of explaining further.

Richard frowned, clearly thrown by the question, “Sorry?”

“I mean, she has a key and everything, it must be pretty serious,” she prayed she was achieving the casual tone she was aiming for, but suspected she sounded moody.

“Oh!” Realisation dawned on Richard’s face. “No, we aren’t together or anything. I sort of help with Edie quite a lot. Clara got him as a puppy just before, well, her husband left and it’s been hard for her to work and look after such an energetic dog. The key is just so she can drop him off and pick him up when I’m not here.”

“Oh,” she said. The answer was a relief, but she wasn’t exactly satisfied by it. “It’s just, she clearly really likes you.”

“Oh, I know,” Richard said, completely shocking her. “We did actually go out a couple of times but I told her I thought we should just be friends. I think she’s hoping I’ll come around but I was very firm, and I guess I’m being a bit selfish as I really appreciate having her around, as a friend.”

“Oh,” she said again, this time because she was lost for words.

“She’s very nice you know, I think if you tried to get to know her you’d like her,” Camille’s eyes narrowed and Richard knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“What are you saying? That I don’t want to get to know her? That I’m a rude person?” She had actually been a bit rude, but he was the last person who should point that out.

He took a deep breath but ventured on, “You did seem a little cold.”

“I wasn’t cold, I was, cautious. Maybe you should have warned me that she could turn up so early in the morning before I’ve even had my coffee.”

Richard sighed aggressively but decided not to pursue the matter, “Look I don’t want to fight…”

“We aren’t fighting!”

“Well that’s okay then,” the sarcasm in the comment wasn’t exactly hidden. However Camille had trouble staying angry at him as he passed her the coffee she had been bemoaning the absence of. “Where would you like to go today?”

“Um, somewhere indoors, I checked the weather and looks like I’ll need the warmest clothes I own. I, um, never did get in the shower I’ll be back later.” She turned to leave, but then turned back. “And thanks for the coffee.”

He watched her walk away, and wondered if his therapist was right about something – maybe he shouldn’t have been making assumptions about people’s feelings after all. 


	8. Tension part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes in this chapter are pretty much what I based the whole story around when they came to me. Now it’s time to write them down I hope I actually manage to express myself properly.

 

Richard had gotten seriously close to calling his doctor. The tension that had begun as soon as Clara had left the flat (though perhaps it was there before, and by before he meant a time he did not remember) never seemed to dissipate. He felt like they existed in two states. In one he happily accepted her teasing and felt perfectly at ease with her. In the other they teetered on the edge of some argument that never seemed to be about what they were actually talking about and he found he lacked patience with her and just wanted to…well he wasn’t really sure. What worried him, what made him consider calling the doctor, is he found he seemed to prefer the latter state. He spent most of the week on his best behaviour, acquiescing on several occasions to Camille in order to avoid a full blown fall out. It was exhausting.

Mind, as he scrutinised her slumped on the sofa watching TV, it seemed to him pretty clear she was tired as well. However, that might have more to do with the fact that they gone to Hampton Court Palace that morning and, when they were just about as far from shelter as you could get in the gardens, the sky darkened amazingly fast and they ended up completely drenched. Camille had without a second thought rung the water out of her hair just inside the entrance when they reached it. This earned her a frightful look from an attendant, and given the rate at which they continued to drip Richard had felt it prudent to insist they go home and get dry. Camille hadn’t been pleased, protesting the English must be used to sopping wet individuals trudging around their historic buildings, and he’d muttered something about her causing a scene that had not gone down well. It was their first “fight” where he actually ended up putting his foot down, and she probably just agreed because she was so surprised he did.

She sat forward a little to accept the coffee he offered, smiling at him like she hadn’t fuming mad just an hour ago, and he felt the whole scene was wonderfully domestic – a thought he quickly buried. Her gaze quickly returned to the television, where she had apparently gotten engrossed in some bad daytime TV crime drama.

“Do you want to stay in?” He asked her, suspecting she was desperate for the excuse.

She gave him a mildly embarrassed look, “I know I’m leaving tomorrow but it’s raining and we’ve done so much and it’s warm here…”

“If you’re happy I’m happy,” he interrupted her quickly. “You don’t want to end up needing a holiday from your holiday.”

He examined the screen, and realised she was watching one of the more despicable afternoon dramas. He’d watched a lot himself when he’d been with his parents still, apparently having forgotten how awful they were.

“Why would anybody be friends with Mark Sloan? Or Jessica Fletcher? I mean they always end up dead don’t they, you think that people around those two would catch on. Then not only do their friends get murdered, they always _solve_ their murder. No normal person would have the presence of mind to solve their friend’s murder, there should really be an episode where they get questioned by the police.”

Camille did her best to keep it together, she really did. But when he started talking about friends getting murdered, all the grief of Aimee’s death returned full force. She didn’t really hear his whole rant, but at some point she must have let out a sob that got his attention.

Richard was utterly perplexed by her change in mood, nobody liked Diagnosis Murder _that_ much, did they? “God, Camille, what’s wrong? What did I say?” He sat next to her on the sofa, where she was attempting to make herself as small as possible as she broke down. She was trying to catch her breath, explain, but then realisation dawned and he knew exactly why she was crying.

“Oh. Oh you’re friend died, didn’t she? Oh I’m sorry Camille I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories. Oh, come on, don’t, come here,” He reached for her, intending to pull her into his arms to provide whatever comfort he could, but she pushed him off and sobbed harder.

“Don’t hug me,” she said vehemently. “You wouldn’t hug me.”

“Camille you’re upset, I was just trying to help.”

She stood up suddenly, sadness now battling with fury, “This is wrong, everything is so _wrong_.”

Richard stood as well, “Come on, please, sit back down and talk to me.”

She was glaring at him, eyes still brimming with tears, was he really so bad at this? He reached out to place a pacifying hand on her arm, but once again she pulled away with him with a force that both surprised and angered him.

“I said don’t touch me, it’s not how it’s supposed to go.”

Now, he knew she was upset about her friend, knew she was probably also quite tired, but when she pulled away from him a second time he felt like something literally snapped in his head, and he knew he couldn’t contain his frustration.

“Oh for Fu…” he drew a sharp breath in and tempered himself before he actually swore. “You know it is _normal_ to offer somebody a hug when they are upset and _normal_ people normally just accept it. Why can’t you accept it from me?”

“Because it isn’t you. You’re rubbish at anything to do with human emotion.”

“Are you _seriously_ telling me you’re mad at me because I am not acting like an ass? For God’s sake Camille, why would you want that? Why would you want me to go back to that insufferable, pedantic, emotionally retarded person?”

Oh boy, she was not happy with that pronouncement. She stalked forward and poked him in the chest, “You don’t _want_ to get better, do you?”

“Maybe I am _better,_ ” he spat back.

“Fine, don’t try to get your memories back,” she threw her arms into the air and turned her back to him. “You can stay here, with Clara, and live in rainy England and take the dog for long walks. You can forget you ever needed to remember us at all.”

“Well at least Clara likes me for who I am!”

She spun on her heel, “Well I liked you for who you were, which is a hell of a lot more of an achievement!”

Their eyes locked, but she surprised him by looking away first – clearly embarrassed by her admission. She didn’t take it back, or try to apologise, just remained stubbornly silent. He also backed away from addressing the statement immediately.

“Haven’t we had this argument? This is what we were fighting about wasn’t it, me leaving?”

“I was wrong about that,” she surprised him by admitting. “You sold your house, you must have been intending to stay, but I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“And now you think I don’t want my memories back, don’t you? That just because I’m a bit different from how I was, that I want nothing to do with my – for want of a better word – old life? Nothing to do with you?”

She didn’t answer, which to him meant he must have hit the nail on the head.

“Look, I didn’t mean to imply I didn’t want my memories back. I…I really do.”

The sincerity in his tone clearly got through, because she looked up at him again, “Why?”

“Why?”

“If you don’t,” she paused to consider her phrasing. “If you don’t _like_ the way you were what is the point of retrieving those memories?”

He might have jumped 15 points on the empathy quotient tests, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t feeling incredibly awkward right now.

“I remember more feelings than…than anything else. And I know there were times I was…happy. It would be nice to know more than just that.”

She looked at him again, and he was relieved to find her no longer crying, “Do you remember much about me?”

He had to work very hard to hold her gaze, succeeding even though he was terrified, “I’m pretty sure you were one of the things that made me happy.”

He was also pretty sure what happened next only really happened on TV. Then again, the entire convoluted story from day he got sent to Saint Marie, through to his orders to leave and the accident that actually sent him home, this great big complicated glorious mess that was his life would seem unrealistic on a TV screen. Because here he was, in his living room, and a mad, half-French, beautiful woman had just launched herself at him and started kissing him like she just invented it. Not that he was complaining, he was quite happy to participate.

But then as quickly as she had instigated the whole kissing thing, Camille had pushed away from him and was on the other side of the sofa, like she needed a physical barrier to restrain herself.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated earnestly. “I feel like I’m cheating on you.”

“You’ve said some pretty mad things this week but that takes the biscuit.” She looked like she was going to cry again, and he regretted his sarcastic response.

“I think,” she began carefully. “I think it’s good that I’m leaving tomorrow. Maybe we both need to think, think about what we want.”

Richard decided he preferred her when she was shouting at him, rather than the crushed woman before him – even when what she said made perfect sense.

“I think…I’m a bit tired,” she gestured vaguely in the direction of her room.

Richard nodded, understanding her meaning, and did not expect to see her for the rest of the day. He sat down heavily on the couch and rubbed his face.

 

 

* * *

 

She was falsely bright in the morning, talking about the gifts she had stuffed into her suitcase for everyone at home (he was pretty sure her case would be overweight when she heaved it onto the scale at the airport). If she wanted to go down the ‘let’s pretend nothing happened’ route, well, he suspected he was probably an expert at it.

She told him he didn’t have to come to the airport, but he insisted. Before she went through security she gave him what had to qualify for the most awkward hug in history – if it weren’t for the fact he was pretty sure they had actually shared one somehow even more awkward in his hazy past.

When he watched her walk away though, he came to a realisation, revelation, resolution – whatever you wanted to call it. He would do anything to get her back.

He’d even be himself.


	9. The Clara Scale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate Chapter!

 

“I call it,” he paused for dramatic effect. “The Clara Scale!”

Dr Conner was not impressed by his attempt at melodramatics, and simply raised her eyebrows at him to indicate he should explain further. It had been two weeks since his ‘holiday’, and she had been forced to insist on three sessions a week. His moods were unpredictable, and his memories returning rapidly, but she was struggling to get him to talk about what any of it meant to him.

“Ok, well this is how it works. Whenever I make some snippy comment, or I’m grumpy and not really in the mood to be sociable, or I complain about something a little more than is probably justified, she gives me these horrendously disappointed looks. And when I do agree to come out, or I’m trying to make her laugh, she smiles at me like, like I’m all that matters.”

“You still think of yourself as existing in two states, don’t you? The ‘old’ pre-accident Richard and the personality that emerged afterwards, when you were free of memories of your past? That Clara’s reactions to you are some kind of indication of which Richard you are today?”

“That’s pretty much it, yes.”

“Ok, it isn’t as easy as that. You aren’t two separate people and you should stop thinking that way. You need to find a place where you are comfortable,” She explained patiently for what had to be the sixth time. He had a real mental block about his personality, convinced he had a choice between two separate entities. “Do you think Camille would act in an opposing manner to Clara?”

“No, from what I remember she wouldn’t be disappointed if I was grumpy. She’d probably tease me about it and try to get me out of my mood, roll her eyes at me if she was unsuccessful. She was just, used to it I guess. I think she found it amusing, sometimes I’d act a little more put-out than I really was because she seemed to find my sarcastic responses funny.”

“So you say that you aren’t sure you liked who you were before, that you were ill-tempered and grumbled all the time. But you’ve just told me that you would play up on this sometimes – like a game you and Camille played. Perhaps now you have more memories back, you should reconsider some of the ones that disturbed you initially. Think about them in the context of the way you and Camille would interact.”

“You think maybe I’ve been judging myself a little harshly?”

“Maybe? Oh no you definitely are. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but there is a happy median here Richard.”

He gave her a look full of hope, and she felt like finally she was getting through. “Have you spoken to Camille since she left?”

“No, I can’t, I feel like I have to have decided something next time I speak to her.”

“Have you?” she asked.

“Have I what?” he avoided answering, a habit he’d always had even when she first met him at training college. Back then she suspected it had been because he really was unclear on her question - so clueless was he about human emotion. She was younger then, inexperienced, missed the fact he actually used it as a device to gain more time to think of an answer.

“Made a decision about what you intend to do about your relationship with Camille?” She gave him no wriggle room with that.

“Ages ago,” he sighed.

“Are you willing to share that decision?”

“I, well, you know that I love her. And there were pretty strong indications that she cared about me as well – ‘pre-accident’ me as you say. I wanted to be that person for her again. But I knew there was no point forcing it, trying to pretend I’d gone back to ‘normal’” Richard had excessively used air quotations in recent sessions. “She has always been so good at reading people and she’d see straight through me.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, and she waited for his continuation feeling rather on edge, “But I could stop trying to force myself away from it. Stop trying to be cheerful when I wasn’t in the mood, holding myself back from making comments. Of course this led to the development of the aforementioned Clara scale.”

She smiled, she couldn’t help herself. When he looked up from his contemplative examination of her rug, he frowned and asked, “What are you so happy about?”

“Richard that is a very healthy attitude to take. To decide to just allow yourself to be yourself. Try not to be one person or the other – it’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do for weeks and you seem to have finally gotten there independently. I know you’re still reluctant, because you thought it was one thing or another but it’s not. And yes, you may very well disappoint Clara but you can no more pretend to be something you aren’t for her than you could for Camille. You don’t want to hurt her, but is she ever going to get what she wants from you?”

“No,” he said quietly, having returned to scrutinising the rug.

“Well I won’t say you are doing her a favour, it’s a horrendous phrase, but at the same time you aren’t being deliberately cruel to her. Okay?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“Hang in there Richard. I think we might nearly be there.”

 

 

* * *

 

Sometimes his memories just reappeared in his brain. He’d reach for a piece of information and find the memory just sitting there like it had never buggered off in the first place. Other times, he’d be overcome by a sense of familiarity, and then the memory would gradually develop. By far the most disturbing were the dreams though, they were always so intense. He woke from such a dream swearing he could smell the perfume Camille had been wearing when she’d walked up to him, almost shyly, in her mother’s bar wearing _that_ dress.

Cold water, that’s what he needed. He stumbled into the bathroom to wash his face, and found himself momentarily surprised by the bristles. He looked in the mirror and shook himself mentally when he didn’t recognise his own reflection, why the hell had he grown a beard? He looked like a man suffering a mid-life crisis, trying to make up for his thinning hair by proving he could at least grow a beard. It had to go.

 

 

* * *

 

He didn’t get back to sleep. Instead he sat on the end of his bed and stared at a suitcase trying to counteract each negative thought with reason as he’d been taught by his therapist. Which started out fine but then rapidly just degraded into questions he couldn’t answer. What if she hadn’t called because she had thought about what she wanted and it wasn’t him? What if some changes were permanent, and she didn’t like them? Wasn’t what he was considering exactly what he wouldn’t normally do? But if he didn’t act now, would he _ever_ have the courage?

His lizard banged his tail against the glass of his tank, gaining Richard’s attention. He fetched him a few crickets that he ruthlessly hunted down.

“What do you think?” Richard asked the lizard, whom he never had named. He did seem to be chewing the cricket contemplatively, but then maybe that’s how he always looked when he was eating and Richard had never paid attention before. Having gained no useful advice from the lizard, Richard returned to stare at the suitcase.

By dawn, he’d actually packed it. Then taken everything back out again cursing how foolish he was being, before changing his mind again and stuffing it all back in rather untidily. Now it was watching him from the corner of the kitchen. God, he thought the suitcase was watching him, probably a symptom he shouldn’t mention to his doctor if he didn’t want to get sectioned.

There was a knock at the door and he frowned, trying to remember if he was supposed to go somewhere or meet somebody. He opened the door to find Clara smiling in a summer dress and for a moment he wished he could love her. When she got a good look at him, her expression changed and provided him with a whole new look to put on the Clara scale.

“You shaved off your beard,” she said mildly. She wasn’t pleased, but it wasn’t disappointment _per se_. It looked more like, resignation? Or maybe even acceptance? “And you’ve packed a suitcase?”

“I…” he stumbled over his words. “I’m probably not going anyway.”

“Sure you are, I’ll drive you to the airport. Have you got a ticket?”

“What?” he said, confused by her sudden enthusiasm to get him out of the country. She must realise where he’d go.

“To Saint Marie? You just pack a bag or did you get a plane ticket?”

“I…I just packed.”

“Oh how spontaneous. Women love that you know. Come on, I’ll look after your lizard,” She stood in front of him, feigned cheerfulness breaking his heart just a little.

“Clara, I’m sorry, I never meant to…” he trailed off, lost for words, but she just smiled again – a sad one, but a real one at least.

“You were very clear, Richard. But sometimes when you, when you care about somebody, you just become convinced they’ll change their minds and realise how perfect you are for each other. Not you though, you just assume that nobody would feel that way. You did when we were teens, I did everything possible to get your attention but you acted like you were blind to it. You never grew out of it I see. Well here’s your proof that isn’t true, so let’s get you on a plane before either of us can change our minds.”

And she was off, down the stairs with his suitcase that he hadn’t had a chance to prevent her taking. He gathered every last ounce of courage he had and followed her.  


	10. Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, and I must acknowledge katedf who let me take a scene from "An extra day in paradise" and remix it for this chapter! I also extend my thanks to her for having a quick read through and removing all the words I get muddled up and replacing them with the correct ones.

What the hell had he done? He was skulking around outside Catherine’s bar, apparently having used all his courage getting to Saint Marie. There was no way on earth he’d go to the station, he couldn’t even call her, he’d become convinced halfway across the Atlantic that this was a terrible idea and that she wouldn’t even listen to him because of the very fact he was here.

He decided to go hide at a hotel. Then he could call Camille, pretend he was still in London, feel her out. No, maybe he shouldn’t even call. Maybe he could try Fidel, or was that too much like being at school – using your best mate to see if a girl liked you. Whilst he stood frozen to the spot, debating this issue, Catherine spotted him. She rushed out of the bar and in a characteristic display of emotion threw her arms around him before dragging him bodily inside and sitting him down.

“Nobody told me you were coming back, we could have had a party! There’s still time,” She held up a hand forcefully when he opened his mouth. “No protests! You’ve been gone for three months, even _I_ started to miss you.” She paused from her enthusing to look at him properly, quickly surmising the truth from his look of dismay, “Nobody knows you’re here, do they?”

“It was a bit, spontaneous,” he told her hesitantly.

“That’s not like you,” Catherine replied carefully. “Of course, people can change.”

“You mean like when they crash a jeep and hit their head?”

She shrugged and replied mildly, “That is one example.”

He remained silent, staring glumly at the table, and she realised that despite the unexpected arrival on the island, this was very much the man she knew, the one who loved her daughter but would never do a thing about it. This was the man Camille also cared for, deeper than she’d ever admit. It appeared any of the new found confidence he’d gained post head injury had been used up completely during his flight.

 “You’re here for Camille,” Catherine stated boldly. “Let’s not waste time trying to deny it. I think it’s rather romantic you came all this way for her.”

“But not very me,” he sighed, eyes still downcast and far too embarrassed to actually look at her.

“She told me some of what happened in London, and I told her she was too harsh on you. I mean there you are, head injury, no memory of your former life, but you were as in love with her as you were before. You literally couldn’t erase your feelings for her; it’s a great story on paper though perhaps a little less glamorous in reality. She realised I was right and has been worrying herself sick. Just like you really, too scared to just pick up the phone and admit maybe she was a bit of an idiot.”

He looked up, and she saw hope on his face that made her heart melt. The man was infuriating, and always would be, but his love for her daughter was a pretty redeeming quality.

“You don’t think she’ll…react badly to my unannounced arrival?” he asked tentatively.

Catherine didn’t have the chance to reply, because Dwayne’s voice could be heard getting ever closer to the bar, “I don’t care Camille, you need to relax! I’m buying you a drink if I have to pour it down your neck!” They were inside before Richard had time to scarper.

Dwayne spotted Richard immediately, “What are you having, Chief?” he asked, like he was expecting Richard to have been here.

“Uh, well nothing for me right now, thanks,” he said, not sounding entirely sure of his answer.

“Sir, are you back?” Fidel asked happily, when he didn’t get a reply he quickly realised his boss probably hadn’t heard him ask, what with the look that was now passing between him and Camille.

It was the very same he addressed next, “Do you think, maybe, I could talk…”

“Yes,” she cut him off breathlessly – turning and walking straight out. He wondered if he’d misunderstood but then she stuck her head back in and said “Come on!”

He shot Dwayne and Fidel a confused look, and Dwayne rolled his eyes cheekily before telling him firmly, “Follow her, then!”

He did as he was told, catching site of Camille walking double time in the general direction of her flat. He only finally managed to catch up with her when she had to pause on her doorstep to unlock the door. Something she seemed to be having trouble with, as she dropped the keys nervously.

“Look, I know Dwayne and Fidel and your mother can be a little nosy but I don’t think we had to come quite so far at quite such a pace for some privacy,” he told her breathlessly.

“Oh, we do for the conversation I have planned,” she said, smiling triumphantly as the door unlocked and then physically manhandling him through it. He heard it shut firmly behind her, and turned around to find her standing in front of it. Suddenly he felt a little like a mouse might when it realises a cat is watching.

“You got rid of the beard,” she said, smiling as she took a step towards him.

“Uh yeah, why didn’t you tell me how ridiculous I looked?”

She’d gotten close enough to start fingering his tie, which she seemed inordinately pleased he was wearing. Before he could protest that she’d mess it up, she stood slightly on her tip toes and kissed him full on the mouth. Now Richard Poole had been raised with good manners, so surely it was polite to respond for a little while? Eventually, however, he knew he was going to have to spit out what he came all this way to say.

“Camille,” he said, breathless now for entirely different reasons. She pulled back to look at him, and he found he couldn’t form a sentence after all. “I, um…”

She laughed quietly and hushed him, apparently she found his stuttering endearing because she was kissing him again. “You don’t have to say anything,” she somehow got out between kisses.

“But – I…” he tried again, but she just pressed her mouth harder to his so making any kind of intelligible noise was impossible. He found himself in the unique situation of being both very aroused and very annoyed.

“For God’s sake!” Richard said, placing his hands firmly on Camille’s arms and pushing her back. “Look I am TRYING to say something here, go…go stand over there.”

She smirked, and entered her front room as he indicated. She stood on the other side of her sofa, mirroring the last time they’d found themselves in this situation, and quirked an eyebrow as she asked, “Far enough?”

“Ok, right, look, um, I,” he paused, taking a deep breath and just spat it out. “I love you and when I saw you, in London, there were some indications that maybe I might just about be living in a crazy enough world where you might have feelings for me as well. Is, is that true?”

Camille was smiling at him almost wolfishly; he’d probably blush if he wasn’t already as red as it was possible to be. She began to move slowly towards him as she replied, “Was the whole kissing you thing not enough of a clue?”

“Well, you know, I prepared that on the plane on the way over and I didn’t exactly know you would react to my arrival so…”

“Enthusiastically?” He jumped out of his skin, whilst he’d been avoiding looking at her she’d stolen up to him again.

“That would be one way to put it,” he said nervously.

“I do,” she said vaguely.

“What?”

“Love you, I do love you,” She made sure she looked him in the eye when she said it, wanted him to know how very sincere she was.

“Oh thank God,” He leaned in and kissed her again, she responded eagerly – more so than he expected when she began working to undo his tie.

“What are you doing?” he asked, clearly alarmed.

“Do you need me to explain?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow, smirking when he blushed again.

“No, I mean, people will wonder where we’ve gone.”

“They aren’t going to come look for us, Richard. I’m pretty sure they’ll figure out we’re…making up,” she teased him.

“But, you think, then they’ll know we’re…”

She rolled her eyes and took her top off. “Yeah, ok, never mind,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

She was grinning like an idiot. Judging from the deep, even breaths tickling her neck she assumed Richard had fallen asleep next to her. She reckoned an eight hour flight followed by a rather enthusiastic round of love making was a good excuse for a nap on his part.  She found herself blushing as she thought back on it, remember the way he’d laughingly hushed her when she cried out in pleasure, afraid her voice would carry through the open window. She’d been so indignant when she came round from the haze of pleasure he’d induced to realise she’d been divested of all her clothes and he’d retained most of his. He responded to her complaints with a shy admission that he’d want to ensure she ‘finished’ as he delicately put it. He hadn’t stayed clothed for much longer.

He stirred next to her, and she turned to face him. He blinked, looking a little dazed, before he realised where he was and smiled back at her, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s ok,” she said, still smiling. His fingers were tracing circles on her hip. “It’s only eight, I imagine they’ll still be in the bar if you want to go over and see them.”

“Um, actually, I was thinking maybe we could stay here and, you know…”

She cut off the world’s most awkward proposition with her mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

She lay half on top of him as she recovered. Her ear pressed to his chest, she listened as his heart dropped down to a more sedate speed and his breathing evened out. She thought she might just be able to stay like this forever.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, just to hear the sound of his voice.

“Barnacles,” he replied absently.

He felt her stiffen in his arms and realised he should maybe have thought before he spoke. She pushed away from him and levelled him with a look that made him squirm.

“Richard Poole, you better qualify that statement with some obscure romantic fact about barnacles, because I am _not_ happy that apparently making love to me inspires you to think about _barnacles!”_

He had a feeling he wasn’t going to explain himself well, “Look, I didn’t want things to be over too quickly so I had to try and think about something-“

“Are you telling me that you were thinking about barnacles _whilst_ making love to me? Do you have some weird perversion about barnacles?!?” She asked.

“No, well, yes, but I mean…”

She burst out laughing, burying her head in his shoulder.

“You’re mocking me,” he sulked.

“No, but come on, it is pretty funny,” She poked him in the chest. “ _Barnacles.”_

* * *

They never did make it back to the bar, at midnight Camille was hungry enough to pull a shirt over her head and returned with two bowls of cereal. Richard was unhappy with the use of UHT milk but when the last meal you are was aeroplane food, the next thing you ate always tasted pretty amazing.

In the morning when he woke she was watching him, her look was a contradiction of pain and joy. She pulled a sheet up and over their heads and kissed him soundly.

“What are you doing?” he asked, in reference to her attempt to build a fort using the sheet.

“Trying to pretend it’s just us for a while,” she told him, looking a little ashamed by her own behaviour.

“I know,” he said, pushing the hair away from her face.

“You know what?”

“We have a lot to think about, and a lot to work out. But I reckon we will.”

She smiled softly, “I was sure I’d be the one reassuring you all the time.”

He made a face, “You probably will be. This is an early deviation from that norm.”

Somewhere distantly he heard his phone ringing. He really hated to leave phones unanswered, but he also had a vague idea that Camille wouldn’t find him leaping out of bed to hunt it down and answer it the most romantic act in the world. Luckily she knew him well, rolled her eyes and pulled the sheet back down. By the time he did locate the phone under a chest of draws, the person had rung off, and he only knew it was a call from the UK. Happily, before the mild anxiety that seemed to set it whenever he missed a call actually could, it began to ring again in his hand.

“Hello?” He answered.

“Richard, it’s Dr Connor.”

He tried to remember when his next appointment was scheduled for, “Aren’t I supposed to see you Friday?”

“Oh good, I can reassure your mother you haven’t suffered another fugue. She went to your house and you weren’t there, and called me convinced you’d had another fugue and were wandering around London lost as a puppy. Not entirely sure why she didn’t think to call you on your mobile…”

“Yeah, I told her I broke it…”

“Richard,” chided Dr. Connor. “I know your relationship with your mother is difficult…”

“Difficult!” he cut her off. “No, my relationships with convicted murderers are difficult. My relationship with my mother is more than merely difficult!”

Camille laughed loudly from the bed, reminding him he was speaking to his therapist completely naked from an island on the other side of the world.

Dr Connor had not missed the laughter, “Richard Poole, where are you?”

“Um, Saint Marie,” he replied a little sheepishly.

“Ok, I’m fine with that, though I am assuming you might miss that appointment Friday. However, Richard, not to nag as you are a grown man, but maybe you should call your mother and just let her know you’re alive.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he assured her, before saying goodbye.

Camille was lying in bed, and even though the sheet covered her body she still looked damn tempting. She smiled suggestively at him, but he gathered his resolve and started hunting down his clothing.

“What are you doing?” She asked curiously.

“I need to call my mother, I didn’t tell her or Dad where I was going! Apparently she called my doctor convinced I’d had a relapse!”

“Well as you just demonstrated you don’t really need to be dressed to make a phone call, come back to bed and call her,” Camille tried to pacify him.

“I can’t call my mother naked!” he practically squeaked. “In fact I can’t even do it when you’re in the room, _she’ll know_ and besides that, I do not want to be talking to my mother whilst trying not to think about you naked in that bed – that could lead to some very interesting Freudian slips!”

He said all of this whilst he buttoned his shirt, and Camille was willing to allow him this eccentricity if only for the fact it meant she could undress him again later. Then he was out the bedroom door, nervously tapping in parent’s home number. His mother answered, indeed sounding frantic.

“Mum, yes I know….no I’m fine. No I haven’t had a relapse. I just decided to take a holiday, last minute,” here there was a pause whilst his mother gave him a carefully prepared tirade.

“So where the heck are you, darling?” she eventually asked.

“I’m on Saint Marie,” he replied, cringing in anticipation of what would happen next.

“It’s that, that _woman_ , isn’t it? Is she taking advantage of you? You’re still recovering Richard, it makes you vulnerable to her, her, seductive techniques…” before she could elaborate on matter Richard felt the need to interrupt her for the sake of his own sanity.

“She _did not_ take advantage of me, or make me do anything I didn’t want to do and even if she did seduce me I can assure you I was a perfectly willing participant!” He was forced to move further down the hall when Camille started giggling like mad from the bedroom, clearly having overheard his last outburst.

His mother was reduced to only being able to manage a shocked, “Richard!”

He did not expect what happened next, from somewhere nearby on the other end of the line he heard his Dad’s voice, “Justine, pass me the phone and let me talk to him!”

“Darling you must talk some sense into him, get him to come home!” his mother could be heard to say as she passed over the phone.

“Hi, Dad,” Richard opened nervously. “Listen - ,”

“No Son, you listen to me. One day, I hope you have a son who does something this surprising, this shocking, so you can understand how I feel.” Richard closed his eyes, preparing himself for the sort of dressing down he hadn’t had since 15. “Because I think it’s bloody marvellous. Look at you! Chasing a woman half way across the world, ridiculous yes but also the right thing to do. You did get her, right?”

“Yes, Dad,” he said a little awkwardly.

“Good, excellent, well you keep hold of her. If she’s what makes you happy, son, your mother _will learn to live with it,_ ” the last part of the sentence was clearly not directed at him. “Talk to you soon. Bye, son.”

Richard was left staring at his phone for quite some time. Long enough that apparently Camille decided to come check on him, wearing the same old t shirt she’d served him cereal in the night before.

“What?” She asked, looking a little fearful.

“It would seem you have a fan in my father. We can work on my Mum, bring her round.”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” she smiled, he wrapped his arms around her as she leaned into him. “Does she want grandchildren?”

He immediately stiffened, and Camille got the feeling he was staving off hyperventilation. She smiled into his chest, “I’m joking!” she reassured him. “For the most part…”

 

* * *

 

 

She located them sitting out on a patio. She couldn’t help smiling at the sight. Judging by the marks in the dirt, the table had been dragged a little way so that it was half in the shade and half in direct sunlight. Richard sat on the shady side, fully engrossed in a pretty serious looking book whilst the woman she assumed was the famous Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey reclined on her chair in the sunshine, beer in hand and apparently quite content to just watch him. It was a compromise, one they’d worked out for themselves, and she had a feeling this was a relationship that would succeed – though perhaps with the odd bump along the way.

Camille had noticed she was being watched, so Doctor Connor smiled in greeting and walked over. Richard looked up from his book, clearly startled to find her out of context.

“Hello, Richard, how are you?”

He stood up to shake her hand and introduce her to Camille, leaving the book on the table. Dr Connor couldn’t help noticing he’d been engrossed in a book about the natural history of barnacles.

“Interesting reading choice,” she actually couldn’t think of anyone, besides marine zoologists, who would voluntarily read a book about barnacles. Beside her, Camille tried to supress a giggle, and she assumed that the detective had supplied Richard with the book as some kind of inside joke. “May I join you?”

“Of course, sit down, um, why are you here?” Back to being direct to the point then.

“Well, psychologist’s take holidays too. Though actually this one is paid for, I told them I needed to come out here and sign you off to be fit for work again.”

He shared a look with Camille, and Dr Connor knew that she must be forcing them to make some decisions they perhaps weren’t ready for. However she was not here to make their lives difficult.

 “How long do you want?” she asked, pulling her fit notes from her bag.

“Sorry?” Richard questioned.

“I can tell by looking at you that you two are perfectly aware of how much you need to work out. You know you can’t return to your old post, Richard, not when you’re having a relationship with your subordinate. I’m willing to date this for some point in the future to give you time to work out some details.”

Camille spared the doctor a grateful smile, glad the woman was not just going to chuck them in the deep end. “We have already started considering the matter, so maybe a couple of weeks?”

“Sure,” Said Dr Connor, adding her stereotypical indecipherable signature to the bottom of the form and passing it to Richard. He took it and put it away carefully in his case.

“God, where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink? Tea?”

“Only a crazy person would drink tea in this heat!” She said. Richard was looking rather concerned and Camille was trying to stifle a giggle again. Clearly somebody _did_ actually drink tea in this heat. “Not ‘I’m going to section them crazy’…” she reassured him. “I’ll just have some juice.”

He shot Camille a quick look, and she nodded indicating she too would like another drink. This disappointed Dr Connor greatly, as she suddenly realised that Richard’s head injury probably had absolutely nothing to do with his increase in empathy scores. He’d gone and bloody learnt the skills from Camille, hadn’t he? Well, that was a section of the paper she’d have to cut out.

 

* * *

 

Richard returned from the bar to find the two women chatting amiably, and was grateful for the existence of doctor–patient confidentiality. Mind, that didn’t mean Camille couldn’t reveal of few tit-bits that might cause his doctor to change her mind. This thought alarmed him enough that he decided to pick up the pace, even though he was holding three glasses. Unfortunately this lead to him stumbling into a parasol, hitting his forehead against it with surprising force – enough to cause him to drop the drinks.

Camille leapt up and hurried over, followed by Dr Conner, “Richard! Are you okay?” Camille took his chin firmly in her hand and started examining for damage.

“Sorry, who?” he asked, his face a mask of confusion. Camille and the good doctor shot him looks of such alarm he felt the need to back pedal immediately. “What, too soon?”

Camille’s response was to punch him in the arm. It hurt more than the bloody parasol.

 

THE END.


End file.
